The Case of the Exploding Loo (4 page)

“Never listen to Dadvice. Dad didn’t even follow it himself. Remember when the milkman told him off for calling Mum stupid? No way did those wasps find their way into the empty milk
bottles by themselves. Dad wasn’t as perfect as you think. Admit it.”

“I’m not listening.” I cover my ears with the sleeves of my school jumper and cross into our street ahead of her. “La la la.”

“Admit it.” Holly pushes past me and races for home. “Or when we get in I’ll rearrange your books so they’re no longer in alphabetical order.”

“Okay, I admit it. I ADMIT IT.”

I agree, not only because I want to preserve order on my shelves, but also because I remembered the invention Dad asked me to design last year. At the time, I thought the milk-bottle wasp trap
was a hypothetical thing. It wasn’t.

What if Dad got into an argument with someone more dangerous than the milkman? I should ask the police if they’ve heard anything. I should also investigate the
milkman.

But before that, I need to figure out what that van is doing parked outside our house. What is it with all these turquoise vehicles? This one is similar to the Kazinsky Electronics van that was
parked on the opposite side of the road a week ago, but with a rounder bonnet and without the big KE logo on the side.

More worryingly, it’s being loaded with boxes through our open front door.

“Mum?” Holly sprints the last few metres. “Mum? Are you okay?”

A quick glance through the out-of-date Christmas lights in the bay window reassures me Mum is still slumped on the sofa, oblivious to van and driver. I’m more concerned about what’s
in the boxes.

A man in a shiny suit blocks the doorway, showing too many teeth. “Good afternoon, young ladies. I represent your father’s life insurance company.” Insurance Man wipes a hand
on his shiny suit and holds it out towards us. “We’re here for ‘Removal and Disposal’. It’s a standard part of the policy.”

Holly ignores the hand. “Why don’t we know anything about this?”

“Because you’re just girls.” Insurance Man reveals yet more teeth as he continues to thrust his hand at us. “We deal with adults and your mother has no problem with me
carrying out your father’s wishes.”

Just girls? Bah!

“Mum has no problem with wearing the same pyjamas, non-stop, for over a month either,” I point out. “So she’s hardly the best judge of what is and isn’t okay. Also,
my dad is NOT DEAD!” Why do I have to keep reminding everyone? “So he doesn’t need a life insurance policy.”

“Nevertheless, I have my instructions.” Insurance Man withdraws his hand and puts it in his trouser pocket. “And unless an adult objects, I will be carrying them out. My work
colleagues here will deal with your complaints.”

He beckons to two enormous men in muscle-vests who are lugging boxes down the stairs. I don’t catch their names but they sound something like Ug and Thug.

I look up at Ug and Thug.

Ug and Thug look down at me.

It’s hard to put my complaints into words because:

Before I can say, “So what exactly is ‘Removal and Disposal’?” Insurance Man has filled his turquoise van with boxes and (Th)Ugs and sped away.

“Who was that?” Uncle Max arrives with one of Vigil-Aunty’s unidentified-vegetable casseroles.

Holly grabs the casserole and slams it down on the hallway table. “A man who made me want to kick things.”

“Ow!” Uncle Max grabs his ankle.

“They were from Dad’s insurance company,” I explain. “They took a load of stuff for ‘Removal and Disposal’. The man said it was part of Dad’s life
insurance policy.”

“‘Removal and Disposal’?” Uncle Max barges past me.

He yanks open drawers and cupboards and throws a mantrum in the hallway about some missing Hugo Box cufflinks he’d had his eye on.

“‘Removal and Disposal’?” he repeats, stamping his feet like a toddler. “That’s not even a thing.”

If it’s not a thing, it’s a clue.

Clue or not, I wish Fake Insurance Man had left some of Dad’s stuff behind. I miss it and I miss him. Dad, I mean, not Fake Insurance Man. I don’t miss Fake
Insurance Man at all. He slammed doors and smelt of cheese. Dad smells of Imperial Leather soap and breath-mints. But it’s not just Dad’s cleanliness I miss. I miss the time we spent
together discussing the latest discoveries in brain science. And I miss his help with my brain ray invention.

I came up with the brain ray concept last year because I wanted to give people a way to increase their IQ so Dad would like them more. Dad loved the idea and we’ve been working on it ever
since.

Holly thinks it’s stupid and says I’ll never convince her or Mum to use it.

I’ve told Holly a thousand times I didn’t invent it with Mum in mind. My voice doesn’t even squeak, but she still gives me that look that shouts, “Big fat
liar”.

I notice something while I’m shutting the drawers Uncle Max left open.

“Hey, Holly! Fake Insurance Man took my brain ray sketches. Do you think that’s a clue?”

“Definitely.” Holly pauses. “A clue he had to grab everything in a hurry.”

Hmmph. I write it up anyway.

I’ve been considering the most important clues I’ve gathered so far and I have reached a conclusion:

+

+

=

When I call the police to share my theory, I get a shock. Dad’s disappearance has been officially downgraded to a “cold” case. At first, I think they’re
referring to the outdoor temperature at the Christmas market, but no. Apparently cases go “cold” when there are no more leads to follow, all suspects have been ruled out and all
evidence has been tested.

“But Dad’s still missing,” I protest to PC Eric. “You’re the police. You’re supposed to find him.”

PC Eric reveals my least favourite clue so far:

“Your Dad hasn’t been seen for seven weeks,” PC Eric says gently. “My fellow officers have drawn the obvious conclusion.”

“That conclusion is not obvious to me.”

“It’s not necessarily what I believe either. But my hands are tied.”

I stare at the phone in shocked silence. Who would do that to PC Eric?

“Not literally,” he adds quickly. “What I mean is police procedure doesn’t always let me follow investigations as I’d like. But there’s nothing to stop you
making enquiries. Perhaps you’ll collect enough evidence to convince us to re-open the case.”

“What about my suspect? Did you find out what Ms Grimm does when she’s not teaching at Butt’s Hill?”

“Yes.”

“And . . . ?” This is the answer everyone’s been waiting for. “What does she do when she’s not teaching at Butt’s Hill?”

“She teaches at a school in Lindon.”

That’s it? That’s my answer? When she’s not teaching, she’s teaching?

Do I need a new suspect? Does the milkman count? How can I get a cold case warmed up again?

“This cold case thing . . .” I say. “Does it mean I can have Dad’s shoes from the explosion?”

“I don’t see why not. One of our officers will be popping round to explain the change in investigation status to your mother. I’ll ask him to bring the shoes.”

I pace by the front door, twirling Uncle Max’s lighter between my fingers, waiting for the officer to arrive. My plan is to set fire to the shoes the minute the officer
hands them over, proving they couldn’t survive a blast that combusted an entire person.

But things don’t work out the way I planned.

Curry in a Hurry Man arrives just as PC2851 is heading across the front lawn, shoes in hand. Curry in a Hurry Man stumbles over something hidden in the unmown grass and knocks into the back of
PC2851, spilling curry all over his police uniform. During the confusion of curry, shouting and Mum having another nosebleed, the shoes vanish.

I search everywhere, thrusting tissues at Mum and keeping a tight grip on PC2851’s jacket. He can’t leave before my shoe bonfire. He just can’t.

But PC2851 uses his police skills to wriggle free and he races down our front path as if it were
his
shoes on fire.

Of course, Dad’s shoes reappear within minutes of PC2851’s escape. Curry in a Hurry Man returns on his moped and explains that he picked them up by mistake. By mistake? A pair of
size tens? How is that possible? I can’t even be cross, because Curry in a Hurry Man is so apologetic and so desperate to make it up to me.

“Drink!” Curry in a Hurry Man forces a styrofoam cup into my hand. “I am bringing the world’s best hot chocolate just for your good self. This I will be doing every day,
thirty minutes after four, to make apologies for my oh-so-clumsy actions.”

“Hot chocolate?” I like hot chocolate. “Yum. Thanks. There’s no need, but if you insist . . .”

“I am insisting.” Curry in a Hurry Man bows and apologises all the way back to his moped. There’s a split second, while he’s pulling on his helmet, when his expression
seems to change into a sneer, but it must be a trick of the light.

Either way, I’ve missed my chance of convincing the police to warm up the case again.

I sip my hot chocolate. It tastes bitter but I drink it anyway, gagging when I spot a familiar turquoise vehicle on the other side of the road.

It makes me nervous.

Holly says that’s because everything makes me nervous. She might have a point. The van doesn’t seem to bother anyone else.

I shuffle upstairs to my room, feeling incredibly tired all of a sudden. I fall asleep hugging Dad’s shoes. Other people have fluffy teddies to cuddle. I have a pair of slightly scorched
leather lace-ups. When I wake up an hour later, the thought of burning them makes me shudder.

I don’t know what happened while I was asleep. I never get attached to anything that doesn’t have internet access, but for the rest of the day I find my hands automatically reaching
for the shoes and stroking them.

Holly decides that if the police are no longer investigating Dad’s disappearance then we need to find our own witnesses. She designs a poster to stick up around town and
asks me to scan and upload it.

I study the poster she’s handed me. It looks familiar.

“Did you base this on next-door’s missing cat poster?”

“What if I did?” Holly folds her arms. “They got Sheba back, didn’t they? Are you going to sit there asking stupid questions or are you going to scan it for me?”
Her kicking foot is swinging.

I start scanning.

We get all sorts of strange replies to the lost
cat
Dad poster. One seems promising, although it’s just as odd as the others: